


Closeted

by Royalrastafariannaynays



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst, Bad mental places, Child Abuse, Dave POV, Depression, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Examination, Other, Whump, general abuse, mention of possible sexual assault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-07-24 10:46:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16173509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Royalrastafariannaynays/pseuds/Royalrastafariannaynays
Summary: Dave's Bro locks him in a closet for five weeks.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [intergalacticju](https://archiveofourown.org/users/intergalacticju/gifts).



Five weeks. 

Just five.

But it’s an eternal five weeks. 

Thirty-five days, eight hundred and forty hours.

A bit over fifty thousand minutes, give or take. 

One day for every search query on your computer about escaping an abusive home, he had said. Why had you dissociated that hard? Why did you have to forget to clear your browsing history? 

It’s nothing like the time he found out you were trying to figure if you liked guys or not. That time, he just kind of beat the ever-loving shit out of you. Worse than usual. Worse than ever. Worse than the farce of sword fighting he usually covers it with. 

Every movement in the closet hurts. It’s so dark, and so uncomfortable. It smells like piss and shit from the bucket in the corner and the stains on your jeans. It’s _his_ closet, too, and every so often you drift off, only vaguely grateful for the pile of smuppets that fell on you when he threw you in here. Probably have a concussion. Maybe? Did he even hit your head? 

You know early on by breathing that the restricted movement is making your ribs heal real bad. Like real bad. He broke one or two of those. They’re never gonna be right again.

The days are almost inscrutable from the nights, and your only real measure of time is the sounds of Bro moving into his room to sleep every morning. 

Making a sound while he’s in his room is a sin. 

He only dumps the bucket every so often, and every time he kicks you in the bruise on your left thigh. Sometimes there are words, too. But every time he speaks, everything turns to fuzz. It always does.

Every day before he goes to sleep, he drops some food through a small sliver of open door. He refills your gallon of water. He doesn’t look at you, only hisses at the smell and slams it shut again. Saying ‘every’ might be a little generous, though. Several times, it’s like he forgets about you. The longest you go without food is five days. And that, you have to guess by the very minor change in colors of the light coming underneath the closet door. 

It’s so dark. 

It’s so dark, and you count the dots on the popcorn ceiling. You count the hem stitches on an old jacket, and you count the threads and tears and buttons on your jeans over and over again. You watch, in the barely-there light, the bruises changing shape and color as they repair themselves. The handcuffs start forming callous on your wrists, and your shoulders cramp. The chain hooking your right foot to the hanger rail becomes less noticeable. 

Once every seven days(you think), Bro opens the door wider. He unlocks the chain from your ankle. He picks you up by the handcuffs and you just barely hobble, cramped and numb, after him. One of those times you fall, and he just drags you to the bathroom and hauls you into the tub. 

The first time, he throws your clothes into a trash bag to be taken away, using scissors to cut them off of you. You remember saying no a lot. A lot of ‘no’s and a lot of ‘I’ll be good’, and they go ignored. He forces you into the tub and rinses the filth from you. No soap, no shampoo, just cold water pelting your skin like a hose until most of the stink is gone. Then he gives you some of your own sweatpants, forces you to put them on, and then drags you back to the closet. 

The last time, you’ve given up on begging. 

You’re weak, hungry, voice hoarse from disuse and dry throat and dust. 

You stopped even hearing him talk a while ago. 

You feel crazed by loneliness, by thoughts, by everything. Everything pounds through your head mercilessly, all the time, and you have nothing to distract you from any of it.

And then one day, you wake up from a sleep fueled by exhaustion. 

The door is wide open.

The door is… open? 

You’re afraid to look outside of it. It’s probably a trap. 

Your legs twist underneath you as you curl further into the back wall of the small space and squeeze your eyes shut. It’s a trap, it’s a trap, it’s definitely a trap. The light is so bright; too bright for your weak eyes. Your cheek hurts when you squint, from when you’d fallen on your face during that fight. 

How long were you in there? 

Thirty-five. You remember thirty-five. Days? Probably days. 

Is that what he said, so long ago? 

“Get up, you pathetic little coward.” 

The words hit you like shards of glass into Doc-Oc’s wife’s face. They hurt, each one a javelin straight into your heart and stomach. 

“I said get _up_.” 

No. More pain will come after this if you don’t do it. 

Struggling to your feet is a herculean task. Your arms barely hold you up as you brace on the doorway for leverage, and the cuffs dig in as you sway and then swing your arms out when your knees fail you. 

“Pathetic,” he says. “Like a goddamn prey animal.” 

You make it there, though. Your head spins and your arms and legs are like lead. You can barely see against the sunlight streaming through the open window. But you do see one thing. Bro’s stepped on your shades. They lie there, shattered beneath one of his feet. And you know he’s going to make you go to school like that. 

Fuck. 

He laughs through his teeth when he sees the realization cross your face. Every thought about him makes you want to throw up. 

“You get one night to clean up and sleep, and then you’re going back to school,” he tells you. And you nod. “You’ve learned your lesson, correct?” 

You nod again. Speaking is too difficult. Your tongue feels like sandpaper. 

“Before you go, though, you get to clean your mess out of my goddamn bedroom,” he says. “You frail little faggot.”

That word stopped hurting you when he said it, maybe a year ago. 

So you nod, yet again. 

Bro stands up and leaves the room.

There’s carpet cleaner, Lysol, scrub brushes, your toothbrush, and the handcuff key. 

And you set to work. 

It takes you four hours to clean every last spot from the floor. 

When you get to your room, you’re too tired to even eat. 

So you rinse yourself off in the shower, not bothering with soap, just wanting a reason to close your eyes and not hear the silence of the house. And then you fall onto your bed, and you sleep. 

\----------

School the next day is beyond difficult. 

You don’t even know what day it is anymore. Your teachers seem pleased to see you back. Apparently Bro told the school that you were really sick. He forged a hospital note. They believed it. Makes sense. 

The first time someone claps you on the back, you nearly take their head off. Your wild eyes and thin face seem to scare John. He backs up, and you hear him ask if you’re okay. 

Words, words, words. 

There was yelling about John. About your crush on John.

You turn left into your English class. 

It’s difficult. It hurts, and there are so many bright windows in this room. But you have to stick it out. You have to stick it out or he’ll know somehow. Somehow. He always knows. He’s always watching you, scaring you, monitoring your searches and phone calls and everything, and he _knows_.

Karkat, in the chair next to you, kind of frowns when you sit down, leaving John looking concerned and hurt in the doorway. But when the teacher asks him to go to class, he goes. You still don’t look up. You feel sick, and you’re shaking and breathing too fast. 

The class is half lecture and half written exam. The teacher, given you being an absentee, asks if you would like to read the material instead. You say yes. All of your teachers today have been very understanding and asked you if you would like make-up work. Too understanding. Maybe they know, too. Maybe all the smiles are fake. 

Maybe everyone is a spy for your Bro. 

Halfway through the exam, you raise your hand and ask if you can take a whiz. The teacher rolls her eyes and hands you the pass on your way out, some kind of Frisbee with the word written on it. 

Once you’re in the bathroom, you lean against the wall. Blessed cold tile touches your face, nearly making you swoon with how it soothes the migraine building behind your eyes. 

On the wall…

Is a mirror. 

The only mirror left in the boy’s bathroom on this floor. It’s got a crack in the corner, and a sink below it, but it’s right in front of you. You meet the eyes of the boy on the other side of the glass. 

He’s also fourteen. He’s got the same scar through the eyebrow that you have. And he’s got the same red eyes that you have. His mouth is the same, and his nose is the same. But his hair is greasy. His hair is matted and greasy. And he looks like he hasn’t slept in a year. He has a bruise just beneath his collarbone, and his face is so very thin. He’s sunken.

That can’t be you. 

Your stomach roils with nausea from the full lunch you ate two hours ago. Only barely do you restrain yourself from vomiting. And even then, it feels like it’s going to come out the other end. Your skin is pale and drawn and fuck.

The bathroom door whooshes open, and you jolt, before one of your ankles decides it’s going the fuck away on vacation, and your leg tries to go out from beneath you. It’s only barely that you catch yourself on the door of the stall.

“Dave?” a familiar, scratchy voice comes. Damnit, Karkat. “Are you okay? It’s been fifteen minutes.” 

That long? 

Shit. 

“I’m fine,” you manage to croak, the gusto behind which coming purely from panic. 

“Oh wow,” Karkat says, a hell of a lot closer. You back up against the wall again, jumping when your back hits it. “No, you most definitely aren’t fine. And your breath and corpse smell like something died.” 

And. 

No, you aren’t. 

The tears come unbidden, flowing like it’s the most natural thing ever. The last thing you see before Karkat blurs out behind the water is a look of deep concern creasing his face. A hand touches your shoulder. It’s gentle, and doesn’t make you start or freak out or anything. It makes you want to lean into it. He’s warm, like the sun. Like the heart pumping the blood through his veins. 

“What’s going on?” he asks. 

You’re already crying. And the threat of bro knowing doesn’t matter anymore. You either want to be out, or you want to die.

There’s no third option. And Bro will take care of the second. 

“He hurts me,” you say. Karkat’s frown deepens, and his thumb moves on the cotton of your shirt. You blink away some of the tears, and you can see him noticing all the mostly-healed bruises, all the red marks and old scars. The cuff lines around your wrists. Your shaking knees.

“Who?” Karkat asks. 

He sounds dangerous. So dangerous, you almost want to recoil. You know even with his troll claws and teeth, he wouldn’t be able to do anything about your brother. 

“Bro,” you tell him, anyway. 

Karkat goes very quiet, and you start crying anew. Disgusting, sobbing, senseless and hopeless crying. Before you know it, you’re being led somewhere else. The floors of the hallways pass in a blur, and then you’re sitting in the principal’s office. A guidance counselor is talking fervently with Karkat, and he’s saying something about… his dad? 

Then he’s pulling his phone out, pointing to you, and then running out of the room. 

“Ay, papa,” he says, the first thing you make out before the door closes behind him. 

There’s more blurs. The guidance counselor has such a kind face. She kneels in front of you and asks if you want something to eat, or some water. You nod mutely to both. 

When she comes back out with the goods, the nurse is following her. Both of them give off an aura of safety. You can’t move. You can’t do anything but nod or shake your head. 

Everything sounds like it’s coming through water. 

“Hey,” you hear, halfway through your newfound cereal bar. Apple flavor. Nice.

Looking up, you see Karkat. He’s holding his phone to his ear, and you hear someone talking on the other end of the line. 

“My dad is a social worker. He can foster you. He’s on his way here with the police.” 

What? 

“You don’t have to go back there,” he says, then. 

And Karkat was cute before, but you don’t think you’ve ever seen something so beautiful as his face blooming in pity and compassion. There’s a light behind him, and he holds up your water bottle. 

“You don’t have to go back there,” he repeats. 

Oh.

 

Oh.


	2. Chapter 2

Half of you is moving through a haze as thick as tapioca, and the other half is terrified. 

Alertness keeps your body at a haunted vigil, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It always does, right? Sometimes it drops, very literally, on you. A shoeprint bruise is nothing new, and you have a whole list of excuses prepared. Most of them have something to do with the fictitious soccer hobby you’ve got with B—

Damnit. 

The memories put a lead foot on the brakes of your mental car, and you’re thrown forward. The windshield shatters, you’re a vaguely comical splat on the dump truck in front of you, and all the bitches and all their bitches cry at your damn funeral. 

Two police officers are talking with the principal, getting copies of attendance and nurse visit records.

Bile chases the thoughts up your throat, past the sticky of the second cereal bar, and scorches the back of your throat before you swallow it down. Karkat’s dad is in front of you, suddenly, brows knitted in a very familiar way. He’s scarier than Karkat, but looks just like him. 

His mouth opens and closes. He’s talking, maybe?

Being that Karkat isn’t scary, like, at all, it’s an easy thing to do. 

Well, he’s not scary to you, anyway. 

Your ears are ringing a bit. 

He’s your friend. Invited you to sit with him and his friends at lunch this semester since none of yours have the same lunch period. You declined cause you prefer to not eat outside, instead of in front of others. Karkat gave you a Valentine when you were in Elementary school. To be fair he gave them out to the whole class, but he smiled when he gave you yours. 

He didn’t go to normal troll elementary school. 

It’s not like the other trolls don’t like him right now, but. 

“Dave?” 

Ah yeah. 

“Sup,” you choke, blinking, and finally seeing Karkat’s dad’s eyes. 

God you’re weak. 

Sudden panic fills your chest, lungs, stomach. 

You’re so weak. You fell to the floor and you surrendered and you whined to the big guys and you’re gonna get it so bad when you get home. 

“We’re going to the police station, okay?”

Huh? Why?

Your throat isn’t producing the air to speak, and you’re too busy beating yourself up for it to see that Karkat’s dad has understood your confusion, and he’s talking again. Why is your hearing going in and out? The fuck? 

Water splashes over your hand as you grip the bottle a bit too tight. 

Karkat makes a noise from next to you, something between concern and chastising, and pushes a box of tissues into your hand. 

“Thanks,” you say, and (Mr. Vantas maybe?) makes a noise. You can hear it, now. 

His eyes are stony and his face is free of expression, and he repeats himself patiently. 

“We’re going to get a statement from you. And a couple of tests,” he says, not putting his hand on your knee, but instead on the arm of the chair next to you. On your other side, Karkat’s shoulder brushes yours, and you find yourself rooted to the feeling. You nod. 

Mr. Vantas looks relieved, and stands, holding his hand out to help you up. 

“And then you’re coming home to my house,” he adds.

You’re accepting the hand and following him out of the building, Karkat on your heels, before the last sentence hits you. 

It renders you silent, drawn into yourself and thinking, for the entire trip to the police station. You don’t have any of your stuff, either. If you’re going to his house, are you going to never see your only family again? Is he going to punish you for your weakness? Does he punish worse than Bro? 

Karkat seems really tough, so he probably gets shit on a daily basis. Or maybe he’s just better than you. Bro always told you that TV didn’t matter, since they were fake families, and that no one ever talked about it, but they got the same shit you did if they had good parents. And you like Mr. Vantas so far, he seems like a good dad. 

Next thing you know, your door is being opened. Karkat is nowhere to be seen, and you unbuckle and slide out of the back seat. Mr. Vantas is quiet, stoic. But his body language is open and generous. Weird. 

“My son stayed at school,” he says, and you must have said some of that out loud? Or maybe you’re just that easy to read. “He’ll finish his classes, and then drive home with both of your things.”

“Home?” you ask, as Mr. Vantas holds the station door open for you. He leads the way around the counter, and back to a private office. His? In the police station? Weird. 

“Yes, our home,” he says. “You can feel free to call it that as well, if you like.” 

He casts the words on you, off-hand, and it’s an overwhelming fucking thought. Changing homes? Now? 

Holy fuck. 

No, nonono, too much. 

“Please sit, Dave,” he tells you, and indicates the chair beside his desk, instead of the one facing it. Okay. 

You do as he asks, wary of the open door, taking note of every possible exit, how many pieces of furniture would break that crystal- clean window. 

He asks you questions. 

They’re… it’s hard to answer them. 

He asks you about “The Abuse” and it doesn’t make sense to you.

He asks about how many times a day or week you eat.

He asks about what made you finally break. 

At that point, you freeze. And there aren’t any more words you can scrounge up from your tongue. They rest, waiting, like carrion, to tear apart the only shield you have left. Without your shades, you feel naked, and under Mr. Vantas’s very clean-cut and organized, but impossible, questions, you feel nearly flayed alive. 

“Dave.”

Your chin snaps up, and your fingers go white-knuckled on the seat of your chair. Ow. Fuck.

“Dave, it’s okay,” he says. Mr. Vantas sounds apologetic, and the first time since getting here, you get a peek of the thoughts behind his eyes. “You don’t have to talk anymore.”

Okay. Cool. 

You can feel your heartbeat slowing, and you take in a deep breath. 

He stands up, and you look at the clock, and it’s not possible that much time passed since this morning, right? But someone is heating up something gross-smelling for their lunch as you’re led into the little medical unit behind the station, and samples are taken from you. 

They put up a curtain. 

You’re asked to put on a hospital gown, and they take scrapings from under your fingernails, inside of your cheek, and pictures of…

Everything. 

It all gets high-pitched and hazy again, for that bit. Someone is seeing your scars, your bruises, your cuts and badly healed bones. No one speaks, even after you’re set back down. They do something called a ‘rape kit’. You don’t remember any of that after it happens. 

When they touch you, sometimes it hurts. You tether yourself on that sensation. 

Eventually, you’re back in Mr. Vantas’s office. 

He’s got dark circles under his eyes, now, and one of his nails is chewed down to the skin when he hands you a Sprite from the machine down the hall. A bag from some sandwich place is sitting in front of you, and you’re in the chair facing him instead of beside him. 

There are Doritos in the bag. Those get opened first, despite the vaguely good smell of bread from the bag. Somewhere in there you remember getting asked about food allergies. Not sure where, but whatever. 

“I do all those tests for all the domestic abuse kids that come through,” he tells you. You think for a second, and push the sandwich toward him. He gives you a soft smile, and shakes his head. “No, that’s yours. Once you’re done, I’ll take you home.”

You shrug. His loss, since you’re not even that hungry, and like, adults need more food than kids. Everyone knows that. 

Besides, you haven’t eaten much for weeks. It’ll take a while to be able to eat more than just snacks.

Just as you’re finishing your Doritos, his phone rings. No texts or calls or anything on your own. But there’s no service in this building. It’s an old and cheap phone anyway, and probably on its way to the grave.

Mr. Vantas picks up his own phone, and says his name, and then his face goes stormy. 

He stands and strides from the office, and closes the door behind him. 

Whoever’s on the other end of the phone, hangs up. 

The quiet, instead of being calm, hulks over you like a salivating beast. 

Shouting comes, muffled, through the office door. Hearing what’s being said is near impossible, but you suddenly understand why Mr. Vantas was upset. The doors of the police station bust open, and two big officers come in, dragging a kicking and shouting… man. A man. 

Standing isn’t something you mean to do. You find yourself before the window, watching the office fly into disarray as Bro is dragged back to a cell. 

“You bring _him_ in here?! Have you _seen_ what he did to this child?!” comes through crystal clear, and you look slightly to the left and see Mr. Vantas towering over someone who looks very guilty, pointing and nearly screaming. 

Someone with a lot of pins on his chest comes over and puts a hand on Mr. Vantas’s shoulder, and he backs off. 

But not entirely. He turns on his heel and comes back to the office. 

“Come on, you can finish that at the house,” he says, terse, and his keys are in hand. “You don’t need to be here at the same time.” 

Guilt hits you like, well, a train. Forget the car metaphor from earlier, this is worse. In the space of five seconds, the guilt strengthens to the point that you almost wish you could just die instead. It physically hurts. 

A hand touches your back, and you’re startled enough that you start walking, eyes down and senses numbed.

The rate at which time has been passing and skipping is strange to you. It runs from one minute to the next, frantic and exhausted, and misses some moments entirely. 

For instance, you don’t remember even getting in the car again, but you’re suddenly in front of a quaint little two-story house about the same size as John’s. It’s got a picket fence and two lazy cats in the sun on the porch, and a giant crab…. Thing. About cow-sized, weirdly matte white, and folded into itself in the middle of the yard. 

“He’s our Lusus, don’t worry about him,” Mr. Vantas says as he exits the vehicle. Before he can open your door again, you stumble out of the car. The cats scatter.

“I thought only Alternian immigrants had Lususes,” you say, keeping a sharp eye on the pile of white, crusty shell. It’s got little ridges, and plates, and bumps along the sides, just like an Earth crab. 

“This one was mine,” he says absently, like he’s explained it a hundred times. “He pretty much lays there in that spot, because he’s so old. Ever since Karkat got mature enough to care for himself instead.”

You notice that he doesn’t correct you on the plural or your pronunciation of the Alternian word, and as the old troll opens the door, you stare at the crab…thing. Lusus. Might as well call him what he is. Even if you’re not sure how trolls make that sound with their mouth when they talk. The Lusus opens one of five eyes, the one most angled toward you. 

It does nothing, but you can tell it’s evaluating you as a person.

Being gazes at like that somewhat eerie, but the skepticism soon fades to calm in your heart when you realize it’s a guardian for the house. Like an old dog, you don’t doubt it would rear up and tear an enemy apart if given the chance. Or, in the very least, it would protect its charges with its hard shell. That’s what Lususes are for, on Alternia, right? 

“Hey dad,” you hear through the crack in the door, as Mr. Vantas manages to get the sticky doorframe to part. 

“Karkat. What are you doing home?” Mr. Vantas says. He doesn’t really sound surprised. But he doesn’t sound happy, either. 

He doesn’t shut the door until you’re fully inside. When he does, he locks two different locks, and then a deadbolt. 

That feels nice, you guess. 

“Please leave your shoes here in the foyer,” he tells you as he slips his own off, and you hear Karkat say something obnoxious from somewhere in the next room. Something about not using the word foyer, because even if they were human, they wouldn’t be white enough for that word. 

It makes you chuckle a bit. 

The laugh hurts. 

The pain had kind of faded into the background for a while, and it flares up again. You find yourself ignoring the pangs of the nerves on your thigh, where scar tissue is probably forming at breakneck pace. The cuts and scrapes on your body sting against your clothing. Pressing a hand briefly to your ribs, you wince, glad no one will see it. 

After all, in the back of your mind, you’re still waiting for your punishment. 

“I didn’t want to be there, when I could be here and be the familiar face to help Dave adjust,” he calls, and you gravitate toward his voice. Mr. Vantas sighs, and takes a right at the small door to your right. Bay doors open into a cozy office with bookshelves up the back wall, and a gold-filigreed marble globe in a sturdy pedestal. Wow. That’s chintzy. 

“You know you’re right, son,” Mr. Vantas calls. “But I don’t appreciate you disobeying me.”

As you pad into the living room, ears alert for any extra noises, you start to hear the sounds of some Mario game or another. A quick glance around shows a well-windowed but currently dark den. It’s got some kind of really thin carpet on the floor, a huge sectional sofa, and a modest television against the windowed wall. Pictures of three trolls-- nearly identical down to the horns-- speckle the tables and mantle. A couple of lamps sit, dark. Everything else leaves your notice when you see Karkat. 

You want him to touch your arms again, to see if his hands are actually magic. 

The game pauses mid-chase to catch a shadow Mario. Then the bright grey eyes are on you, and he’s grinning. 

“Nice of you to join me, loser,” he says, and you almost catch yourself grinning, too. But his eyes spear you there as you stand. You’re still exposed, you remind yourself, without your sunglasses. 

Karkat starts to frown, before shaking his head and then standing and walking ‘round the furniture to look you up and down. Again, you find yourself incapable of words. But it doesn’t feel stressed. More like you don’t have to say anything for him to know what you need. 

Well, maybe not that much, but you know Karkat to be deeply intuitive. 

He knew what you needed this morning, after all. 

Leaning around you, Karkat calls out to his father. His array of crooked and misshaped fangs is… really quite cute. You’ve always thought that. Wished your own crooked teeth looked that good. 

“He’s my friend, I can help him get settled,” Karkat says, and you see a set determination in his eyes that’s normally reserved for novels, or writing essays on his laptop at lunch. …friend. That word is nice.

Mr. Vantas comes back out to the foyer, a different bag in his hands. He obviously needs to go somewhere, but looks hesitant to leave you alone. With Karkat there, you imagine it’s not quite as stressful, since there’s someone to watch you. 

Was he planning on locking you in? 

It wouldn’t surprise you, honestly. And it wouldn’t be a completely bad thing, either. You’ve heard of foster kids running away a lot. 

“With you here, I don’t have to take him around with me to places he probably doesn’t want to be,” Mr. Vantas says, looking worn. “So this time, I’m not going to ground you for very obviously skipping school.”

Karkat looks victorious. Nothing is ever subtle with Karkat. 

“You’re going to be okay here, Dave,” Mr. Vantas says, softly. He gets down to his knees in front of you like you’re just some kid instead of fourteen whole ass years old. “We can go get your things tomorrow. He’ll be in holding until his trial. I’ll call the school and arrange a day or two off, and then you can go back with Karkat on Thursday.”

“I’m sorry,” you blurt. No idea why that happened. 

Karkat’s dad’s eyes soften. A very small and tired smile creases his mouth, and he looks so old in that moment. He can’t be more than what. Forty? 

Then, finally, he reaches out and takes one of your hands. His grip is impossibly tight on it, but it doesn’t hurt. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” he says. “This is my job, and I find nothing better in life than improving the lives of others.” 

Oh, okay. 

The fact that it’s also his job, instead of just… something he wants to do? 

It’s nice. It takes pressure off of your shoulders, and you feel your eyes sting again behind your bangs. You’d known it, by context, that he did this for a living. But having him say it, to your face, is a relief. 

You finally stop waiting for a punishment. The fear of the other shoe dropping sits still, in the depths of your instincts. But it’s deeper down, now. Not as urgent. 

Karkat groans, and flaps a hand at his dad, pushing him out the door. 

“Go work, go go go,” he says, in characteristically brash Karkat fashion. 

Before he can get caught and swept up in a probably very embarrassing hug, Karkat is stepping back and turning on a heel. He waves for you to follow, and then starts climbing the stairs to the second floor. 

“Don’t unlock the doors,” Mr. Vantas calls, and you hear Karkat shout a vague reply. “David’s relative has dangerous friends.” 

“His name is Dave, dad,” Karkat barks, and the front door is closing. 

Not stopping even for a second once the tumblers of the locks are in place, Karkat leads you upstairs and into what you think is called a Jack-and-Jill style bathroom. Once there, he starts digging around under the sink. Soon, he’s standing and producing a gallon-sized zippable bag. You flinch at the sudden movement, and take it. 

Inside is some travel-sized bottles of things with fancy labels, including toothpaste and soap. 

“We get them from hotels, cause otherwise they throw them away,” Karkat is saying, as he turns to rummage in a basket on a shelf. From that he pulls and hands you a clean little loofah and a brand new TMNT toothbrush. 

The thought of going back horrifies you, and this new stuff feels almost like starting over, a little. The key around your neck burns against your skin. But there are clothes, and your computer. Maybe the collected feathers, and the drawings hidden between your mattresses. A couple of the preserved animals. 

The music stuff is staying there, though. And the swords. 

You hope it all gets repossessed by the law. 

Or burned. 

You would be totally fine if it got burned. 

“Will you come tomorrow?” you ask, and Karkat stands there for a minute, elbow-deep in a random assortment of toiletries. You glance down, and study the TMNT toothbrush with great intensity. Like a laser. This is the first thing you’ve said to him since the school. 

“Uh,” he starts, and you glance up long enough to see his eyes. He’s attempting to extract his arm from the stuff without spilling any of it out onto the floor. “I can ask Dad, sure,” he says. 

It’s good enough. 

Your words are lost again, so you nod. When you look up again, he’s turning away from you. You catch concern in his eyes again, and he gestures for you to follow him. You nod again, and do as he asks. Bundle of bathroom stuff clutched tight in your arms. It’s your home, for now. 

On the left side of the bathroom, a door opens into a room that’s very Spartan in its makeup. A few college pins and trophies line the shelves, and it’s all very… clean. Like a department store example of a real room. 

“Sorry, you’ll have to borrow my hatchmate’s old clothes,” Karkat mutters, pulling open a chest of drawers. Everything inside is also folded very neatly, and Karkat is making like he’s had no greater pleasure than ruining order. “Hope you don’t mind sharing clean underwear.”

Your confusion must show on your face, because he elaborates after handing you a faded old long sleeve tee. 

“He’s at college, and you’re too big for my stuff,” he explains, and you get handed a worn old pair of sweatpants with ‘Harvard Law’ emblazoned down the leg. And a pair of socks, and a pair of underwear.

He’s not wrong. You’ve got at least six inches on him, and he’s wider than you, and stockier, so all his stuff would be simultaneously too wide and too short. That’d definitely be a look, but you’re not up for a crop top when you’re covered in scars. And worse, right now. 

You accept the clothes without complaint, and he nearly shoves you into the bathroom for what he says is a ‘proper shower’. 

The soap smells nice, and the steam fills the room in a way you’d forgotten about, ever since Bro forgot to pay the gas bill a couple months ago. The pounding of the water on your skull is numbing in the best way possible. It feels like a cleansing rain. 

Once you start with the loofah, though, you almost can’t stop. What started as an honest scrubbing turns into a frantic attempt to scour yourself of any and all remembered sensations on your skin. His hands dragging you to the shower to clean, his boot into your side, his fingers on your neck, holding you against the wall. And then so much worse than that.

Furiously you scrub until your skin almost stings, raw under the burning spray.

A loud knock comes at the door, and you nearly slip and fall in your startled state. 

“I ordered Chinese, and we’re gonna watch a movie!” he shouts, and you suck in breaths and desperately regain your surroundings. Right. Karkat’s house, shower, gotta get out and get dry and put on clothes and deodorant. 

You do just that, and no more knocks come. Karkat is downstairs in the living room as you pad down in your clean, soft clothes. He’s got a blanket in one arm, pulling it out of the ottoman. You rub the towel over your head, and you catch him watching you, eyes on the big scar on the side of your shoulder that’s sticking out of the collar a little. 

“Hey. I have a blanket for you,” he says, and you hum a noise, dropping into the sofa at his indication and accepting the blanket into your arms. It’s a heavy fucking blanket, and smells like it was just washed. It’s so soft on one side, and the other it’s flat and plain cotton. You can feel little beans inside, like a stuffed animal. Weird. 

“I don’t know if you’ll like anything I ordered, but I got a variety,” Karkat says as he presses play on the DVD.

It’s legally blonde. 

Good movie, not that you’d admit it. Especially to Karkat, who, unlike your curled form under the blanket, is sitting practically on the edge of the couch and mouthing some of the lyrics to the opening song. God that’s cute. 

He can never find out. 

His dad might actually snap and drop that other shoe. 

The movie is halfway to halfway when the food arrives. 

Karkat lays the smorgasbord out, half on the coffee table and half on the unused half of the sectional. It’s a very squishy and comfortable couch, and you have a hard time getting out when he tells you to follow him to the kitchen to get drinks. 

On your way in there, you spot a mason jar sitting on the top shelf of this little unit that’s situated in the corner of the room. Ignoring it for the time being, you decide to just get in there and accept the cup Karkat pushes into your hand. His fingers graze yours and you exhale deeply. 

And then you head back into the living room. 

On closer inspection, the jar has some kind of bug leg in it. It’s fascinating, and you stand on tiptoes to see it better. There’s no label for the jar, but it is wrapped in some kind of red ribbon around the lid. The bug legs are huge, maybe six whole inches long, crested and jointed tubes. 

Are these from their planet? Big bugs on Alternia don’t sound too unheard of. Baby trolls come out of their eggs as bugs, after all, and—

Hold up. 

Horror dawns on you, and you count the little legs. Six. Troll grubs have six legs. 

Oh my god.

Oh fuck oh fuck you’re going to be living with these fucking weirdos oh my fucking god oh fuck.

A scream pulls itself out of your throat. Where did they get troll grub legs?! What little poor animal did they pull these off of?! Are all trolls this barbaric?!

Karkat slides to a stop to your right, at the kitchen door. He looks ready to fight, and you scream again. He glaces around, for danger, or maybe for witnesses who fucking knows. When he finds none, he looks back at you with bemusement. 

“What the fuck, Dave?” 

_”Why do you have baby troll legs in a jar?!”_ you shout, holding your hands up and backing away from the mason jar. 

Karkat’s face fills with red, and it tightens like he’s just stuck a fuckin lemon in his mouth. 

“They’re mine, stupid!” he shouts right back. Honestly with much less high-pitched and voice-breaking severity. But who’s keeping track, right? 

“ _Why_ are your baby _legs_ in a fucking _JAR_??!” 

“Because my dad is weird!” he tries, and when you start screeching, his face gets even more pinched and red, and he smacks a hand down over your mouth. His skin is cry and warm, and he glares into your wide eyes over his pinky finger. 

“Stop! Stop!” he says, half-shouting, and you give up on making noise behind his hand. What the fuck?? what the actual fuck. 

“Look, it’s only as weird as some humans keeping baby teeth!” he tells you, and yeah that makes it less weird but you also think it’s fucked-up to keep a baby’s teeth! Fuck. 

“When I take my hand away, please don’t scream,” he says. You nod. 

Karkat takes his hand away, and you place a hand on your chest and breathe heavily. 

Slowly, as the red drains from his face, and Karkat pushes the jar behind a decently-sized framed photo of his crab-guy, it turns from freaky into funny. 

Holy shit, Karkat’s dad kept his first molt baby legs. Holy _shit_. 

Karkat glances at you when the first snort sneaks from your mouth. 

“Don’t you fucking dare,” he says, and it’s too late. 

You turn and scamper away, laughing, trying not to spill your water, and Karkat chases you. He ends up accidentally spilling a container of rice onto the floor and then has to stop to shovel it back in, but you’re out of breath and giggling on the couch. 

This could be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys! jules asked for a sequel so here it is! let me know, once more, if i forgot to tag anything. love yall! <3

**Author's Note:**

> hey guys, sorry about that whump! this is a gift fic, and it was interesting and cathartic to write! if you see a trigger that wasn't tagged let me know so i can add it. Love yall! <3


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